


Good friends are the best diversions

by Valpur



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Anders is at Skyhold, Fake Names, Fluff, Happy Ending, M/M, a little tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-05-29 19:34:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15080198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valpur/pseuds/Valpur
Summary: “I couldn't bear to know you were out to fight Corypheus on your own”.“But you know what that blighted – literally – creature does to your head! I left you behind to keep you safe!”“Justice is helping with that. He keeps the Calling at bay – for now...”Skyhold is a big place, but not big enough to avoid unwanted meetings.





	Good friends are the best diversions

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone!  
> This is my piece for the [Handers reverse Big Bang](https://handers-time.tumblr.com/), and I had the honor to be paired up with the incredible [Dahllm](https://dahllm.tumblr.com/post/175340292752/handersreversebang2018). It's been a lovely experience, so I recommend you all check out all the entries for the event, there are some seriously talented authors and artists involved!
> 
> It's been over a year since I last wrote about these two nerds, and Maker I missed them. Some crushes never fade, and Handers definitely falls into the category: I want them to be happy after all they've been through. So here, have this fluffy little thing - enjoy!

“I should go...”

Skyhold's bricks behind his back are hard and fresh in the late spring morning, but the hands cupping his face, the lips against his own, the lithe body pinning him against the walls are all incredibly warm. Hawke closes his eyes and drowns in the kiss, his head light, almost dizzy with excitement.

Anders breaks from the kiss and sinks his long fingers in Hawke's hair, pulling it just enough to make his scalp tingle and his neck bend backward.

“You – you definitely should. Must be busy”, the mage breaths on his throat, nibbling at the blushing flesh. Hawke can distinctly feel a smile linger in the crook of his neck, and smirks in return.

“Oh, you know”, he whispers. His hands crawl their way up Anders' back in a pattern both familiar and marvelous like the first days of spring. “Champion's stuff. Kissing babies, delivering speeches, signing autographs...”

It's been three weeks already, and the shock of Anders appearing at Skyhold is barely starting to fade. There's been lots of swearing on both sides at the time – Anders is the only person Hawke trusts with the knowledge of his fear, and seeing the mage walk the bridge of the fortress among the crowd nearly stopped his heart.

Longing. Stubbornness. _Need_.

 

_“I couldn't bear to know you were out to fight Corypheus on your own”._

_“But you know what that blighted – literally – creature does to your head! I left you behind to keep you safe!”_

_“Justice is helping with that. He keeps the Calling at bay – for now...”_

Hawke surrendered. True enough, he missed Anders more than he dared to admit, and with him in his arms now the world makes more sense.

 

He's still terrified of being caught, but nearly nobody in the Inquisition knows what Anders actually looks like, and of those people, half are likely to kick the mage's ass to Kirkwall and back, but in good faith. Like Varric.

“Did Cassandra ask you to sign her copy of the Tale of the Champion?” Anders chuckles and kisses his way up Hawke's neck, nuzzling at the stubble under his jaw. Hawke laughs breathily.

“She did. Not directly, she still turns beet red anytime we're in the same room. Varric won't stop teasing her”. He swallows a lump of concern – the Seeker is rather determined to put his best friend's head on a pike if given a chance (namely, if Varric does anything remotely sketchy or inappropriate), and most of Hawke's days so far have consisted in increasingly nervous attempts at keeping a semblance of peace between the two. Their unresolved sexual tension is unnerving.

Anders ruffles Hawke's beard and lifts his head up for another kiss. Deeper, his tongue warm and demanding, sweet with the aftertaste of his breakfast – honey and fresh bread, the green echo of herbal tea. It tastes like home after a long hopeless battle, of forgiveness and second chances. Quite unlikely, considering they're in the middle of yet another war, but here they are, clutching each other's body like shipwrecked sailors to a floating scrap of wood.

It's wrong. It's dangerous.

It's too good to let it go.

And eventually Anders is the one who shows a glimmer of common sense. Before passion could take over for good, he sighs and pulls back, leaning his brow to Hawke's.

“But you're right, love. You should go”. There's a trembling note in his voice, the one he reserves for Hawke and Hawke alone. It's been what, six, seven years now? And that quiver is still there. Hawke smiles and kisses the tip of Anders' nose, making him giggle.

“And you, too. You patients await”.

The folks down in Skyhold's courtyard are too happy to have the literal best healer Thedas has ever seen to care much about his identity, and Anders seems genuinely enthusiast of lending a helping hand to the wounded soldiers, lame veterans, laboring young mothers and fevering children. He's himself again, more than Hawke's seen since those dreadful last months in Kirkwall.

“They do”, Anders whispers. He takes Hawke's hands and pulls him from the wall. “I'll miss you”.

“If Varric managed to find us a blind corner in the security”, he says pointing at the battlements, “he'll surely won't refuse me a quick check of Cassandra and the others' schedules so that I can come visit you”.

A horn howls in the distance, and Hawke stiffens instantly. Change of the guard, their time is over.

“I love you”, Anders says, placing one last, feather-light kiss on his mouth; then he turns around and runs to the castle, the hem of his robe brushing the explosion of flowers blooming on the slopes around the fortress.

Hawke stays a little longer. Sure, he's got stuff to do, and Cassandra gets incredibly stressed whenever she can't find him, but he needs to recollect himself. Meeting the counselors with his cheeks red and a dreamy smile on his lips will sharpen sister Nightingale’s already sharp enough eyes, and lady Montilyet will smile behind her hand, knowingly. Only Cullen would probably ignore the signs, too busy sulking and ruffling his hair. He's not thrilled with Hawke's presence, and he jumps anytime Hawke greets him, fidgeting in his seat whenever they are in the same room.

With a deep breath of crisp mountain air, Hawke lets the tension melt away.

_Never a dull moment._

Eventually, with one last look at the pale peaks all around him and at the dazzling blue sky, blissfully dragon-free, he brushes some invisible dust from his fur collar and walks back behind the walls.

Corypheus is his business, and Varric's, but it affects the Wardens more than he likes to think. Carver is safe somewhere far beyond the borders, or so he needs to hope (but he'd trust Aveline with his life and the entirety of his adult duties, so such hope is very close to certainty), and Anders is at his side, surprisingly sound for a possessed mage who happens to be the most wanted man in Thedas.

Things could look worse, after all.

 

 

Looking down Skyhold's walls really brings back memories of Kirkwall. Hawke's not sure it's a good thing – responsibilities and fear, all those faces that counted on him, one way or another.

But now something's different in the air. Having Anders in sight does little to ease his constant tension – Andraste's ass, it probably makes it all even worse – but it's a joy for sore eyes to lean against the battlements and catch a glimpse of blonde hair from the field hospital in the courtyard.

With a satisfied smile, Hawke perches himself on his elbows and squints in the blinding afternoon's sun. It's a quiet day, or so it seems: the Inquisitor's off for some trouble at the Imperial court, something Hawke's ridiculously happy to skip, and while war still rages all around them, Skyhold is relatively safe, for now.

He can very well afford the luxury to waste some time and admire how Anders is melting into the fortress' routine. No one in their right minds would say _no thanks_ to such a skilled healer, and there's always someone in need to keep Anders busy. The busier he is, the happier he is – and the happier he is, the more Justice is under control.

And there he is, a lanky man in worn-out mage robes, with his hair glimmering like gold and copper under the sun. There’s some silver, too, pale, thin strands here and there, barely noticeable for those who don’t know where to look. They’re growing old, and it’s a blessing.

Anders looks better, and Hawke knows he _feels_ better, too. His hands smell like herbs and there's always some questionable stain on his robes, but he smiles more often, and it's easy for him to disappear in the crowd.

“Well, Hawke, next time why don't you put out a banner? Someone might have missed how you look at our favorite healer...”

Varric's voice startles him, and Hawke's chin slips from his fists as he blinks in surprise.

“What... I don't...”

The dwarf chuckles and joins him, arms crossed over his chest and a smirk upon his lips. Such smirk, though, doesn't reach his eyes – Varric looks nervous, tired, always on his toes.

“Lovey-dovey smile, puppy eyes, blush on your cheeks... ah, if only Seeker Pentaghast could see you now, she'd fall in love with your persona even more than she already is”. Varric winks, and for a moment, brief and precious as a falling star, they're young again, and reckless, and ready to capture the world. No broken families and wounded trust, no lies and stories and lost friends.

Hawke shrugs and scratches his beard.

“No dangers in sight, I can enjoy a moment for myself, although I know it won't last”.

“Pessimism?”  
  
“Experience”.

Varric shakes his head and quickly glances over his shoulder; a frown deepens the lines between his eyebrows. Hawke is sure they weren't always that deep.

“I wish the Inquisitor was back already. The sooner we dispatch you to Crestwood, the better”.

“So eager to see me leave?”

“Yeah, I wish you and Blondie were very far from here, somewhere with no Templars, no frenzied mages, no Seekers, no holes in the sky, no batshit crazy Magisters and all that shit”. He rubs his hand on his brow and looks at Hawke. “I'd miss you, but worrying constantly about you two is ruining my sleep”.

Hawke lightly punches Varric's thick shoulder and tries to swallow the tightening of anguish always ready to choke him. For his best friend, he's more than willing to push back his own fears.

“Aw, Varric, you're adorable. I promise we'll invite you over for tea once we settle down”.

“I'm not adorable, I'm manly, charming and irresistible, but I'll forgive your poor choice of words because not everyone can be a master of speechcraft like me”, he jokes, and some of the tension is gone. “Cullen's busy with some uptight general-guy, so you'll probably have a moment of...”

“You're the best”, and Hawke is completely sincere. Without Varric and his network of spies (and his passion for gossip), keeping Anders safe would be twice as difficult.

“Tell me something I don't know...” Varric waves his hand and strolls down the walls, leaving Hawke with one last wink.

 _What have I done to deserve such wonderful people in my life?_ Then he remembers. _Oh, right. I kept up with Carver's shenanigans for almost thirty years. I'm basically a saint._

Grinning from ear to ear he walks down the stairs, awfully aware of how many eyes are upon him. The Champion of Kirkwall doesn't go easily unnoticed, and since his presence is not a secret, he tries to look as intimidating as he can. The spiky armor and fur collar do their trick, with some help from his fame; he reaches the lower courtyard with just a couple of nods in greeting and a small dance on the last step, where he stumbles upon a busy servant girl burdened with an armful of sheets trying not to drop everything.

But then he's there, finally, and Anders is but a few steps from him. His hair tie is coming loose, and long blonde strands frame his face; kneeling on the grass by the cot of an elder woman, with frail shaking hands, he whispers words of encouragement and caresses her thin white hair.

“... it's going to get better soon, Frida, your lungs are clear, and your grandchildren will come to see you later today”.

“You're a gift from the Maker, my dear boy”, she smiles sleepily, her pale eyes crinkling with gentleness. “Such a good man, and to think people distrust you mages... you'd never hurt anyone. And I can't even remember your name...”

Hawke stiffens as he overhears the conversation. He can see Anders' smile freeze on his lips, but nothing else in his demeanor betrays his nervousness.

“They call me Pounce”, Anders replies, and the moment he looks up from his patient, his eyes meet Hawke's.

_And as usual, you kill me with one look. This fire never stops burning._

“I'll leave you for a moment, Frida. Rest, and I... well...”

But the old lady is sleeping already. Anders sits back on his haunches and relaxes his shoulders, and Hawke takes the hint and approaches him.

They're not alone, far from it, but hiding in plain sight is becoming their specialty. Hawke sinks his hands in his pockets and quietly walks among the crowd of patients, healers and families. Here nobody cares about the Champion, or the Chantry, or even Corypheus – all that matters is that people are suffering, and how the healers can make them better. Nobody stops him as he reaches Anders, barely anyone spares him a look.

“So”, Hawke starts out in a nonchalant none. “I've been told there's a very handsome healer around...”

The corner of Anders' lips twitches and slowly curls upward. He doesn't stand up, just sits there, looking at Hawke with an echo of his old mischief.

“Have you, now? And what brings you to the hospital?”

“Oh, I've been stung by a...”

“Hawke, we're not at Chateau Haine, it won't work with me”, Anders laughs under his breath, and Hawke's heart skips a beat. There's still room for being silly and happy in this weird, cruel word of theirs, even if only for a second. “Anyway, were you looking for me?”

“Yes, er – _Pounce_. Have you got a minute?”

“For you? Always”. How Anders blinks, slowly and deliberately, makes him look like a cat in a human body indeed. Hawke does his best to stay put and not take him in his arms here and now, because it would be unseemly. Or straight out dangerous, since the Champion making out with the foreign healer would raise too many questions.

So he waits while Anders, still crouched at his patient's side, rolls his shoulder to relieve the tension of a long day of work.

And right when he's starting to melt into the idea of that quiet corner behind the stables, and maybe of a second, more intimate round later that night, Hawke sees it. No, it's not that – he _feels_ it before he actually recognizes it.

Tension. Stiffening Anders' back and neck, draining his freckled face of all color, making his eyes wide and terrified. Like a sparrow under the shadow of an eagle, Anders stares in front of him and shakes.

Hawke's muscles clench in sudden terror. Too many years on the run, too many sleepless nights, nightmares and close calls. He slowly turns around to follow Anders' gaze, and something inside him gives in.

It's bad. Not terrible, not Corypheus-level bad, but _bad_.

Up there, by the high courtyard, the sun paints in fire the steel of the armor, and for a split second – it's real, it's a lifetime as an apostate coming back to bite him in the ass – it looks like there's a sword on the chestplate, engraved in the metal and surrounded by actual flames.

But Cullen is not a Templar anymore. The commander of the Inquisition troops is walking by the balustrade with his brow furrowed and a roll of parchment in his hands. He's too interested in whatever he's reading to look down at the camp hospital, but that's where he's headed.

Right where Anders is still sitting.

Hawke rouses with a shiver.

“Go”, he whispers. The grin's still on his lips, but now it's gone from his eyes. “Now”.  
  
“I can't run away like this, it would be suspicious!”

“But meeting our old friend face to face even more so – go!”

“I... Hawke, it's too late!”

His voice falters, the same kind of tremble Hawke's heard too many times in Kirkwall. He blinks, and the red blaze of the Chantry exploding flashes behind his eyelids.

_We've come a long way to free our kind, and I've done something more, too, just to keep you safe. I won't let something as trivial as Cullen's bad timing put you in danger!_

He frantically looks around, masking his fear with an annoyed gesture of his hand, as if trying to chase a fly away. They're standing right in front of the stairs, and should Anders stand up, his remarkable stature would attract Cullen's attention. Maybe sneaking away... no, that, too, would be suspicious. Pounce the healer is loved by Skyhold's folks, but Anders the apostate? Not so much.

There seems to be only one way out, and Hawke's not holding his breath. He's not that fond of Cullen – or templars, religion, lyrium, anything Kirkwall-related in general – but he can make an effort.

“I'm on it, love”, he growls from the corner of his mouth. “This is not a drill. Be ready to quietly walk away”.

Anders squints, and Hawke meets his eyes.

“What are you planning to do?”

“Diversion”.

“Hawke, you're a terrible liar and an even worse actor!”

Cullen, surrounded by a small crowd of guards and scouts, is absent-mindedly making his way down the stone stairway. He doesn't look dangerous. Imposing, maybe, with all that red fur around his shoulders and his signature martial stride, but he hasn't noticed anything wrong.

Yet.

“It's a terrible plan”, Anders hisses, turning his back to the stairs and trying to appear as busy as possible with a pile of bandages abandoned by one of the cots. His long hands are clenched so hard his knuckles protrude, white as pears, under his skin.

“At least it's a plan! Come on, I will...”

“Hey there, Curly!”

Varric's voice rings, loud and hoarse, from the upper level of the courtyard. Hawke's head shoots up to look at him, and Cullen does the same. Exhausted, with a badly concealed roll of his eyes, the commander stops midway down the stairs and turns his head to look at the dwarf.

“Yes, Varric?” He doesn't even try not to sound somewhere between pissed and patient.

“What are you doing here? Didn't you get Ruffles' note?”

“What... note?”

“She was looking for you – I heard something about a raven with news about Ryder's scouting of Griffon's Keep area”.

“It's Rylen, and you know it”, Cullen replies. He shakes his head, and for a moment his eyes meet Hawke's.

 _Don't look at me. Don't look this way at all,_ he thinks with all his strength. He can feel Anders curl behind him and wishes his broad frame is large enough to hide him. But none of this seeps on his face; just a smirk, as sarcastic and irreverent as always. Cullen's mouth twitches with stress, but after a curt nod the commander sighs and turns around to face Varric.

Hawke doubts anyone but him could recognize the sparkle of nervousness in the dwarf's eyes, but in a second even that impression is gone, and Varric is his usual charming self again.

“Ryder, Rylen... I can't be up-to-date with everything's going on in this fortress, can I?” Varric shrugs. “But if you're too busy don't worry, I'll tell Josie that...”

“Don't”, Cullen snaps. Another sigh, and his shoulders sag as he handles the papers to the nearest scout. “We'll revise this later. Dennet will have to wait”.

Without sparing Hawke one last thought, Cullen walks away. It's only when his tall shape is gone, swallowed by the shadows of Skyhold's main building, that Hawke's senses start working again. Chirping birds, the smell of grass, sweat and suffering, the rustling of fabric and, more importantly, Anders' strangled groan.

All he wants is to spin on his heels, pick him up and kiss him, but that would be a terrible plan indeed, so he just looks up at Varric with wordless gratitude.

“You owe me one”, Varric says out loud, and Hawke knows what he means – how he's been watching his back since the day he’s set foot to Skyhold, and twice as much after Anders' arrival. He knows that Varric would never misspell Rylen's name (or anyone's, for the matter), and that the letter is a lie – but a lie is more believable if covered in a thin layer of carelessness. Not that Varric is anything but a clever observer of everything around him, but Cullen probably doesn't know him so well.

“More than one”, Hawke whispers, waving at his friend.

A cold, long hand brushes against his fist, and Hawke's fingers relax at once. He turns his face and meets Anders' smile, thin and kind of shaky. And that smile hides both a sneer and an hysterical laughter.

Hawke wishes he could kiss their tension away, but there, in the casual touch of their hands, there's all they've ever been. Friends, lovers, partners in the revolution.

“Later?” Anders whispers, dropping his hand and leaving a faint blur of heat on Hawke's skin.

“Better”, he has to admit. Their eyes lock for a moment.

No way they'll let a narrow escape to come between them. Not after all they'd been through.

_And having something to look up for, even something as simple as another kiss, makes this world more bearable._

Anders blinks and smiles; someone calls him – calls Pounce – from the crowd, and he jumps, ready to get back in action.

Hawke sighs.

_I’m happy you’re here, my love._


End file.
